THIS IS WHAT I LIKE.

I like the icing on the cupcake but not the sponge,

I like the icing on the gem but not the biscuit,

I like the icing on the fruit cake and even the marzipan but never the fruit, I said never the fruit, never the sultanas, never the raisins, never the fruit implied, else it’s cake denied,

I like the yellow coating on the battenberg but never the fluffy sponge squares,

And they always, ALWAYS, insist on catching me unawares,

I like doughnuts with the hole in and never the jam, it’s not even proper jam, it’s a bleeding imposter, it’s a sham-jam,

I like the top bit on French Fancies but not the rest,

I like the middle of custard creams but not the top or bottom, and it doesn’t matter how much you argue, it’s not a chocolate bourbon,

I like burgers but not with sliced guerkins, they taste of twig, I’d rather eat a murkin, I can’t believe of all the words to rhyme with guerkin I chose a pubic wig,

I like marmalade but only if it’s shredless,

I like orange juice without the pulp and milk without the cow,

And lastly I’d like to dedicate this list of likes to anyone who hates peanut butter.

The Dairy Patient

I knew a guy, he was 6ft tall
He called himself ‘the messiah’
He was scared of chicken & geese
He liked the taste of fire
He kept his brain in a breadbin
I’ll toast his loaf if he comes too close
Just stick me back where I came from
I’ll do my best to deny all tracks

I touched his face with a cow prod
His head was made of cheese and milk
He lived his life in a kitchen
Money for butter as smooth as silk
He sold himself as a dairy product
Pimping his udders on the street for cash
His eggs were tainted with bad love
He wished for more but screamed for less
His destiny lies in the hand of an evil oven glove
A life in bits in the yoghurt of distress

Invisible Bus Journey

The old lady shook as she gripped the pole on the bus,

The little boy stared and stared with the ignorance he’d been given,

No-one helped her, no-one seemed to care,

Except the lady in the socks with the pink stripe, that matched the pink stripes in her trainers,

Who kept holding out her arm, each time the old lady trembled and lost her footing,

As if to say “I’ve got your back, don’t worry”

The old lady didn’t see, but it didn’t matter, that hand, that invisible gesture, spoke volumes that day,

As to what kind of person the woman in the pink stripes was,

Amazing what you can pick up on the way to town on the bus.

90's Explosion

Wake up boo,
All that she wants is another baby,
I've never met a girl like you before,
I wanna live like common people,
All the people, so many people, they all go hand in hand,
Because you're gorgeous and I'd do anything for you,
But I won't do that, no I won't do that,
We wake up, we go out, smoke a fag, put it out,
And I said "what about breakfast at Tiffany's?"
And you said something that I've never forgotten,
Minute after minute, hour after hour,
You're unbelievable,
And isn't it ironic? Don't you think?
Don't speak, I know just what you're thinking
What's with these homies dissing my girl?
Strike a pose,
I wish I was special, you're so fucking special,
Did you have to let it linger?

Bowling Shoes.

My face says it all. Wearing a tortured grimace, like that of a small child sitting aghast in their own wee, until their mother flies to the rescue with wet wipes and clean pants. God bless our mothers. But where are the wet wipes now? As I surf another man's sweat with my toes? Going commando in bowling shoes has got to be up there with soiling oneself. To make matters worse, I'd not worn socks today either and can feel the sticky, second-hand vinyl shoe roofing digging into me. Ah, my poor feet, crying out for a sock or a foot spa, even those awful verruca foot bags would have been better. Well, it was like a foot bag wasn't it? Like your foot with the wart was the freak of the Tudor village, the white witch come to scare the chickens away, so you had to bag the devil and turn it out. Then everyone could tell who the village curse was; "he with the latex verruca sock bag over his foot, turn him out, turn him out!"
I wish my soles in these bowling shoes would get shunned. I think I can actually feel the remnants of dead skin against my heel, or possibly bits of crisp. It's my turn to bowl, as I raise my joints and shuffle towards the waxen chosen lane, I notice a group of nuns a few lanes down. At first I think this rather an amusing, eccentric sighting. Then I look over to who must be the Mother Superior, judging by her veil sizing; casting my eyes down to her feet I see she has her own brand of footwear, nothing like mine or the rest of my team's, they've not even been hired here by the looks of them. My mind darts back and forth with questions as to 'how?'
Here I am, risking impetigo in these borrowed bowling hooves. As I grab my boulder of a ball and trot with regretful toes to face the skittles, I look down at my shoes before throwing a swift, envious glance in the sister's direction and back cometh the grimace and the conclusion:
that is one smug nun.